


what makes you so special

by Murf1307



Series: that motley band called a.b.c. [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Bittersweet Ending, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Group Sex, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Orgy, Other, Past Child Abuse, Punk Rock, Tattoos, Trans Character, reference to homophobic parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:59:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, so the band has the occasional orgy.  And okay, so the only one Grantaire hasn't so much touched is Enjolras.  it's not like Enjolras is bothered by it, or anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what makes you so special

**Author's Note:**

> written for [squash](http://nothing-rhymes-with-grantaire.tumblr.com) based on a conversation we had…three months ago now. title from ‘w.a.m.s.’ by fall out boy.
> 
> this fic brought to you, in a far and away sort of way, by les mis punk week, les mis tattoo week, 'rebel rebel' by david bowie, and 'gloria' by patti smith. the end happened because i had 'northern downpour' by panic! at the disco on repeat for too long, so blame them if you are sad.
> 
> please note i know very little about the music industry and all of this is a bald-faced excuse for feels and sex. if i screwed up with regard to any of the trans or nonbinary characters, too, please let me know.

Orgies are stress relief time for the band, when they've been working too hard and it's too damn difficult to deal with the constant media glare and the inundation of attention.  When everyone's mostly naked nothing else seems to really matter but the group and the pleasure. 

Who instigates tends to vary, though often it's Courfeyrac coming out of the tour bus bathroom in her panties and a snappy t-shirt, brushing her hands across somebody or other's shoulder, hip, inner thigh.  She'll drop kisses to someone else's neck, just making her rounds until she settles in someone's lap, all long legs and calculating heat.

Tonight, Bahorel is the first to fall for her wiles, and she's arrayed in Feuilly's lap while he slides to his knees between her legs with a smirk.

It's a signal for anyone who isn't feeling it tonight to head back to a tech van and wait it out, but tonight nobody goes.  Even Jehan stays, eying Courfeyrac thoughtfully as he puts down his book.

Enjolras watches it start to unfold and readies emself, letting eir hair out of its loose bun. Combeferre notices, a smile pulling at the corner of hir mouth.  Ze slides closer and Enjolras notices, smiling in return.

It's most natural, ey's found, to start with Combeferre or Courfeyrac, whom ey's known the longest and who know eir erogenous zones the best.

Combeferre wastes no time, pressing a hand to eir jaw and leaning in for a slow-burning kiss.  Hir tongue slips along the seam of eir lips, and soon the kiss involves much less finesse and quite a lot of tongue.

Enjolras can hear Courfeyrac moaning nearby and thinks maybe when Bahorel's finished, ey and Combeferre should go see if she wants more.

But for now, ey's content with this -- the abandon of Combeferre's mouth on eirs and the steady weight of hir hand on eir thigh.

* * *

Grantaire has his hands threaded in Jehan's hair, not quite pulling, as Jehan rides him.  It feels good, more than good, and he slides his mouth along Jehan's jaw, eyes flicking around the room. 

Of course his gaze finds Enjolras first, eir lips on Courfeyrac’s neck while Combeferre fucks into her.  Ey looks sharp and bright in the tinny lights of the tour bus, hair set alight by slatted sunset light through the half-drawn blinds, eyes shut, eyelashes little golden fans against eir skin.

“I see you looking,” Jehan whispers in his ear, grinding down on his lap.  “Why don’t you ever approach em?”

Grantaire groans.  “What, _me?_ ”

Jehan shakes his head and bites at Grantaire’s jaw.  “Whatever,” he says softly, and smiles.  “Want to change positions?”

“Fine,” Grantaire says, and Jehan stands up only to lie down on the tour bus bench, legs spread wantonly.  Grantaire kneels between those legs and slides in.  

Here, there’s no room for distraction, just tight heat and the pale expanse of Jehan’s skin, and he can almost forget Enjolras is naked only a few yards away from where he is.

* * *

Jehan’s not the only one who’s noticed that Grantaire will look but never try to touch.  Courfeyrac caught him looking last time, and it worries her a little, because unhappiness in the band always does.

No matter that Grantaire’s not really part of the _band_ , not officially, but he’s here and he does whatever they need him to do and can find the best bar no matter what town or city they’re stopped in — it’s preternatural and fantastic — because she cares about him.  She cares about everyone in this ragtag, surprisingly successful group of punks, and she’ll do what she can.

Talking to Grantaire is probably a bad idea, though.  So she approaches Enjolras one day, loose-limbed and relaxed in the corner of a hole-in-the-wall they’re all relaxing in.

“You know what’s weird?” she asks em.

“What?” Ey asks back, raising an eyebrow and glancing up from eir notebook.

Courfeyrac shrugs one shoulder.  “I’m pretty sure the only person in this band you haven’t fucked is Grantaire.”

Enjolras frowns, eir eyebrows furrowing.  Ey pauses for a moment, jaw working as ey thinks.  Eventually, ey says, “I think you’re right.”  Another pause, a shrug.  “He’s never made a secret of not liking me much.”

Courfeyrac raises her eyebrows.  “But, given the opportunity, would you want to?  Fuck him, I mean.”

“I…don’t know.”  Enjolras’s gaze goes distant.  

But Courfeyrac knows she’s planted a seed, and that’s enough.

* * *

Enjolras tries to shrug it off; it's likely that the reason ey and Grantaire have never had sex is because Grantaire doesn't want to.  Enjolras isn't sure how ey would respond if he did approach em, to be honest.

But now ey can't stop thinking about it.  And that's a problem, because they're on tour, and ey has more important things to think about, like set lists and stages and finding time to practice some of the newer songs in their set -- things Jehan and Feuilly have put together, a little bit of input from everyone, about life on the road and the stories people will tell a band of free-wheeling punk-rockers. 

Ey really doesn't have time for the way ey starts wondering about what the reason is that ey and Grantaire haven't had sex.

"You're floating away, _mon ange_ ," Jehan says one afternoon, floating on a pot high all the way through Colorado.  "What's the deal?"

Enjolras shrugs, bent over eir notebook.  It's half snippets of lyrics, half winding, senseless doodling, and it's how ey thinks best, getting things down on paper, or even just the mechanics, the physical act of putting pen to paper.

" _Ange_ , talk to me.  I can give you a light," Jehan continues.  "Or I would, if R gave me back my lighter."

Ey blinks.  "Why did Grantaire take your lighter?"

"'Cause me and Courfeyrac got high, and he says that's a recipe for blowin' up the bus," Jehan admits, a slow, undulating shrug.  "He's probably right."

Enjolras nods.  "Probably.  Don't do anything to rile Courfeyrac up, anyway."

Jehan nods.  "Now, back to you, _mon ange_.  What's got the four heads in the clouds?  A new song, maybe?"

"No."

"So there _is_  something!" Jehan crows triumphantly.

Enjolras groans, rubbing eir eyes.  "Shut up, don't draw attention to it, if you'd be so kind."

"Then telllll meeee what's on your mind."

"I'm considering whether I want to have sex with Grantaire," Enjolras says, eir jaw set stiff when ey're done speaking.

Jehan smiles. "That'll be pretty," he says, leaning back to sprawl on the bus bench next to Enjolras.  "You're both so pretty, and he's gooooooood at fucking."

Enjolras flushes.  "Noted."

Jehan giggles.  "He's very considerate, really.”  He flutters his eyes shut.  “At the very least, you’d have a good time.  He’d never settle for less.”

“That’s enough, Jehan,” Enjolras mutters, and turns the page.

"Okay," Jehan says, and rolls off the bench, standing just as he hits the ground.  "Good luck!"

As he wanders away, Enjolras starts a new line:

_the government fucks us all in the end  
_ _but i'm thinking i'd rather fuck you._

Ey sighs and crosses it out.

Ey never was much good at poetry. 

* * *

Grantaire kisses another groupie -- for what value of groupie he can be considered -- one night in Utah.  The girl's rich, he can tell from her designer boots and the authenticity of all the leather she's wearing.  She's more awkward than anyone Grantaire has ever touched but she's _enthusiastic_ , her arms around his neck and her leg clumsily hitched up on his hip. 

He doesn't think to ask her name until he's trailing his tongue across her hipbone.

"Maria," she says, gasps it into the air above him as her fingers tangle in his hair.  She sounds almost prayerful, and he smiles against her skin and pulls more out of her with his lips and his tongue.

She never asks his name — he can tell she wants to, but is nervous about offending him.  She curls a hand around his cock like she’s never done this before, and he thinks she mustn’t have, with the way that she’s concentrating on not screwing up a handjob.  He lets her know she’s not, groaning and hitching his hips into her hand.  It’s good, it’s still heady and warm, and he kisses her when he comes, staining his own shirt and splattering against her skin.

“That was,” she murmurs, looking a little sleepy now as she wipes them both clean, “That was nice.”

* * *

Maria joins the group the next day, when she meets Cosette.  With her comes Eponine, who’s definitely from a different tax bracket than Maria, and Grantaire knows _immediately_  that she’s in love with her. 

Which is a problem, since Maria has fallen in love at first sight with Cosette, who seems to have fallen right back.  Eponine is stormy with unrequited love, and Grantaire nods his understanding when she takes a bottle of whiskey from the stash she doesn’t know is technically his.  

But the two of them slip into the group as easy as anything, and the road rolls on ahead of them all.  Maria is confused and mildly terrified by the prospect of orgy, though, and Cosette just chuckles and leads her off the bus when the next orgy starts.  Jehan winds up pressing against Eponine as Grantaire does little more than watch — tonight, he thinks he’ll wait to be approached; he’d rather not risk approaching anyone tonight.

Eponine eventually slides between his legs, toying with the hem of his shirt.  He knows what she's looking for, and feels a little guilt that he's had Maria too -- but Eponine just straddles him and leans in to whisper, "She said you give good head.  Felt bad she was too nervous to return the favor."

"S'okay," he mutters.  "Glad she enjoyed it."

"I told her to go get laid that night."

"Thanks."

Eponine smirks mirthlessly.  "I wasn't expecting her to fuck someone in the band."

"I'm not...technically in the band.  I just know where the booze is."  Grantaire shrugs and slips his hand up her thigh, under her pleated skirt.  "You seem pretty good at finding the booze, too."

"Was that yours?" Eponine asks, feigning apology as his fingertips reach the hem of her panties.  "Good shit."

Grantaire slips his fingers under the elastic, tips dragging across her bush, slowly edging toward her clit.  She smiles and rubs against his fingers when he finds it, humming her pleasure.  He smiles back at her, spreading his own legs a little wider so she'll spread hers.

He has a feeling they're going to be very good friends.

* * *

Two states, one orgy, and three scrapped songs later, Enjolras is Not Happy.

The idea of fucking Grantaire keeps occurring to em at the most inconvenient moments, and ey has found that, quite definitively, ey _wants to have sex with Grantaire._

Ey glares at Courfeyrac when she laughs at eir predicament when it's really all her fault anyway.  Combeferre puts an arm around eir shoulder and squeezes em gently, looking a little far-off for a moment when ze glances in Jehan's direction.

But it gets worse when the tour bus breaks down on the interstate, and Grantaire's the only one with enough automotive know-how to diagnose and fix the problem.  He strips out of his shirt -- something rare, even though orgies are a regular occurrence -- and Enjolras finds eir attention stuck on the winding tattoos all across his chest and back. 

More than a few of them are obviously tribal, and Enjolras wonders what they mean.  But ey recognizes some of the others -- particularly, ey recognizes immediately that the series of dates stamped across one of Grantaire's shoulderblades is the same as the release date of each of the band's albums and the start date of all their official tours.  Enjolras bites eir lips because ey'd never would have thought that the band mattered that much to Grantaire, enough to ink it into his skin like that, among all the other tattoos.

"You're staring," Feuilly mutters, elbowing em in the arm.  

"He's got the band's important dates on his back," ey mutters back, frowning.

Feuilly grins.  "I remember when he went to get the one for this tour.  J-n-B went with him."

Joly and Bossuet, then, most likely.  "Why didn't I know he --"z

Ey closes eir mouth sharply, because, honestly, why _would_  ey know anything about Grantaire's tattoos?  They rarely speak to each other, and when they do it's usually to argue.  Ey has no right to ask, just because ey's developed a sexual attraction to him now.

Mood thoroughly soured, Enjolras climbs back on the bus.

* * *

Later that week, there's a barfight.  

Enjolras hadn't wanted to get involved, but someone ripped eir dress in the middle of it, and ey had slammed them into the counter for it, only for someone else to try and punch em in the face.  

Grantaire saw it and intercepted, getting between Enjolras and eir attacker, redirecting the force of the punch with the back of his forearm.  The other guy gets pissed, but it gives Enjolras an out, which ey gratefully takes.  In a few minutes, Grantaire has joined em, and they both stand awkwardly in an alleyway.

"Thanks," Enjolras mumbles, scratching the back of eir neck.

"You're welcome," Grantaire says, fixing his long black hair back into a ponytail.  One of his eyes is starting to blacken, and Enjolras wonders if they should head back to the bus or look for the rest of the band.

There's another moment of quiet.  Then, Grantaire starts to giggle.

"What is it?"  Enjolras bites the inside of eir cheek.

"You look like you stepped out of that David Bowie song," Grantaire says, the giggling expanding into full blown laughter.  " _Rebel, rebel, you tore your dress, rebel, rebel, your face is a mess._ "

Enjolras can't help but grin even as ey shakes eir head.  "Oh god, oh god, shut up," ey says, giggling emself.

Grantaire keeps going, eyes lighting up at Enjolras's reaction.  " _Got your mother in a whirl..._ "

" _She's not sure if you're a boy or a girl,_ " Enjolras sings back, grin widening almost unbearably.  Something warm and pleasant is working its way through em, and ey revels in it.

“ _Hey, babe, your hair’s all right_ ,” Grantaire replies, his eyes brightening even further.

Something in Enjolras is moved, and the next line comes out almost like a question:  _“Hey babe, let’s go out tonight…?_ ”

It must be a trick of the low light, but it seems like Grantaire is blushing.  " _You like me, and I like it all,"_  he continues, grinning as he offers his arm to Enjolras playfully.  

Enjolras bats it aside, but curls eir hand into the hem of his t-shirt, laughing as ey pulls him out of the alleyway and back to the street.  Ey has no idea what eir doing, but, well, Courfeyrac is always telling em to be more spontaneous, right?  

So ey continues the song, leaning in to sing it just into Grantaire's ear: " _We like dancing and we look divine."_

And that's that, really, that seems to seal it all.

They move down the street together, searching for another bar, music pouring like offered wine out of every open door in this downtown neighborhood.

Grantaire tugs on the sleeve of Enjolras's red jacket.  "This one," he says, indicating a bar with grit in its windows and the Sex Pistols flowing from the sound system.  Enjolras grins, wolfish, eir grip on Grantaire's shirt tightening just a little before letting go entirely to head inside the bar.

* * *

Grantaire has no idea what's happening.  All he knows is that he's alone with Enjolras for possibly the first time ever, he's got a black eye, and Enjolras has been smiling at him for the last fifteen minutes.

But he can work with this.  He's going to fuck it up, spectacularly, but that just makes all of this all the more important:

This could be just that one bright moment he's been yearning for, when he allows himself to yearn.  He'll break it, but he'll commit all of this to memory before he ruins it all.  He doesn't know how he's going to fuck it up, just knows he will. 

Enjolras is turning back toward him now, still smiling, eir makeup smeared and that fucking ripped dress that started all this letting him see a flash of eir red tights underneath.  Grantaire would do anything to kiss em right now, he thinks, to kiss that smiling, gorgeous mess.

But he can't, that would be going too far.

"R?" Enjolras asks, tilting eir head quizzically.  Ey gestures for him to come closer, and Grantaire does.  "You okay?  You look a little dazed."

"I'm fine," Grantaire replies firmly, smile softening with the moment as he nods.  Then he gestures at the bar with his head.  "You want to get a drink?"

Enjolras nods.  "Sure."  The smile's back on eir face as they proceed to the bar, and Grantaire bites his lip to hide his -- he's not sure he's ever made eir smile like this before, and he's not going to push his luck.

They sit down on barstools, and for a moment their knees knock together.  Grantaire tries to ignore it, like he'd tried to ignore the skim of Enjolras's knuckles against his waist when ey'd pulled on the hem of his shirt.  This is all much more than he ever expected, and he's not sure how to handle all of it.

Enjolras orders a Shirley Temple of all things, and Grantaire is so caught off guard that he laughs.

"What?" Enjolras asks, frowning and raising one eyebrow.

"No, I just -- I wouldn't have guessed you for somebody who likes Shirley Temples."  Grantaire bites his lower lip.

"I like grenadine, and cherries," Enjolras replies, shrugging eir shoulder.  Ey's still frowning.

Shit.

Grantaire nods.  "No, yeah, cherries are good.  Y'know, Courfeyrac said she can tie a cherry stem in a knot with her tongue?"

Maybe changing the subject will work.

"I know," Enjolras says, a smile flickering at the corners of eir mouth.  "I taught her how."

" _What?!"_   Grantaire almost yelps it, and Enjolras devolves into peals of laughter.  Grantaire narrows his eyes.  "Are you shitting me?"

Enjolras grins as the bartender puts eir drink down on the counter.  Ey plucks a cherry out of the glass and pops it in eir mouth, stem and all.  Grantaire watches, waiting for the moment of truth, which comes fairly quickly, all things considered.

Enjolras swallows, and then opens eir mouth, sticking out eir tongue.  The knotted cherry stem is resting innocuously in the center of eir tongue.

Grantaire's jaw drops a little, and Enjolras closes eir mouth and smirks at him, eyes sparkling almost evilly.

"You are an _asshole,_ " Grantaire grumbles, but smiles as he does it.

Because of _course_ , Enjolras would be able to tie a knot in a cherry stem with eir tongue.  It just figures, considering Grantaire has seen em with eir head between Courfeyrac's legs, tongue working absolute magic.

Enjolras spits the stem out onto a napkin, and suddenly Grantaire is thinking about eir mouth, and _things_.

_Danger, danger_.  He is so fucked, and not in the literal way.

Grantaire takes a sip from his own drink -- Rum and coke, easy on the rum because he is _not_  going to get wasted with only Enjolras around to deal with him -- and shakes his head. 

"Are there any other unsuspected talents you've got to share?" he asks.

Enjolras shakes eir head.  "No, aside from music."

"God knows we all already know about that," Grantaire mumbles.  "It's why we're all here in the first place."

"It's not just me, though," Enjolras rebuts, and, shit, is ey _blushing_?  "We wouldn't be anywhere without Courf's guitar or Bahorel's drums or Cosette's keyboard or Jehan and Feuilly's lyrics, you know that.  I'm just the voice that gets people in the door."

Grantaire shakes his head.  "But you do it well.  Really well."

"Thank you," Enjolras says softly, looking down at eir drink almost pensively.  "You have this tattoo, on your back, of all the band's important dates."

"How did you --?"  Grantaire cuts himself off, a lump of dread solid in his stomach.

Enjolras bites eir lip.  "When you were fixing the bus, you took your shirt off and I saw the list.  I -- is this weird?"

_Is this weird?_  is probably the question Grantaire expected the least to hear.

"No, uh, I just didn't know you noticed."

"It's kind of amazing -- the tattoo.  That you care enough about the band that you'd ink important dates into your skin like that."  Enjolras is _definitely_  blushing, _holy shit._

Grantaire blushes himself, too.  "Well, ABC kind of...kind of got me out of a real shitty place, y'know?  And now I'm here, sort of...part of it."  He shakes his head.  "Shit, that was cheesy, sorry."

"You're definitely part of it," Enjolras murmurs.

"Thank you."  Grantaire's not sure how else he can say to that.

Enjolras bites eir lip again and scratches the back of eir neck, mussing eir hair even further.  "If you ever feel like you're not, or that we're excluding you in any way, please tell me and I'll do whatever I can to fix it."

"Oh.  Okay."  Grantaire blinks at Enjolras, who looks nervous and utterly earnest about this, and has to confront an inescapable fact:

Enjolras cares about him.

In some small way, Enjolras _gives a damn_ , and that's not something Grantaire had ever been prepared for.

He must be staring, because Enjolras's face goes red and ey drops eir head in eir hands.  "I'm sorry, that was heavy, this was supposed to be fun."

Grantaire gapes a little and shakes his head.  "No, um, I probably needed to hear that."

He's going to freak out about this later, back in the caravan.  He'll go to one of the tech vans and talk himself hoarse about it, if Joly or Bossuet is able to lend an ear.  But he can clamp down on it for now, because Enjolras wants this to be fun.

"Do you want to dance?" he asks instead, gesturing out to the floor where bodies are writhing to X-Ray Spex's "I'm a Cliché."

Enjolras smiles again, nods.  "Yeah.  Let's dance."

* * *

It's not a closely-guarded secret or anything -- anyone who's seen Enjolras on stage knows that ey can _move._

Enjolras dances, because dancing feels like freedom, especially with speakers blasting and the bass thrown up high enough that it thrums behind eir ribs.  It's a reminder of what, ultimately, ey's fighting for with ABC's music.

But it feels different when Grantaire offers.  Enjolras isn't sure how, but it does.

Nevertheless, ey pulls Grantaire out onto the floor as the track changes over to "Pretty Vacant," and Enjolras leans in to say, "Hey, look, every single argument we've ever had," right into Grantaire's ear.

Grantaire laughs and shoves eir shoulder, and, if anything, the tension seems to disappear.  Everything seems to disappear, except the song and Grantaire, smiling and laughing with em.  Enjolras stays close, dancing with him, because Enjolras is good, but Grantaire?

Grantaire is incredible.  He melts into the music in ways that Enjolras just _can't_ , no matter how hard ey tries.  And it's no different now, swaying and stomping and, at one point, pulling Enjolras into a breathtaking spin.

"Pretty Vacant" melts into "Blitzkrieg Bop" and then, there it is, "Rebel Rebel" by David Bowie.

Enjolras catches Grantaire's eyes, and there's a question in them Enjolras isn't sure how to answer.  So ey just keeps dancing, and Grantaire does too.  

Someone who reeks of whiskey and vodka tries to cut in, hands on Enjolras's hips for only a moment before Enjolras spins around and backs up, pressing emself up against Grantaire so ey can give the intruder eir best glare of doom.

Grantaire's arms wind around Enjolras's waist, and not even the wasted interloper can misinterpret _that_ , but Enjolras isn't paying that person any more attention, distracted by the weight of Grantaire's touch and his solidity behind em.  Enjolras presses back, impossibly closer, head tipping back onto Grantaire's shoulder.

They stay like that for a long moment before Grantaire spins em around and they go back to dancing, Enjolras's waist still tingling with the ghost of Grantaire's touch.

When the song fades into a slow, comfortable Velvet Underground track Enjolras can't remember the name of, they retreat back to the bar.

Enjolras orders a shot of tequila this time.

* * *

Within an hour of that second drink, Grantaire is licking salt off Enjolras's wrist and honestly, is pretty sure he's going to wake up any second now, because there is no way this is all really happening. 

Enjolras is watching him with hooded eyes, eir pupils dilated from something _other_  than the low light in this bar.

This is drink, what, three?  Four? _Five_?  for each of them, and they're both loose and buzzed from all of it.  Grantaire can't be shitted to care that this scares him, scares the _fucking fuck_  out of him, because it feels good and it's _Enjolras_  he's with.

"I want to fuck you," Enjolras says, sounding as sober as a priest.

Grantaire moans outright.  "Shit, you can't just _say_ shit like that," he whines, leaning in closer, mouth landing sloppily on Enjolras's neck.

Enjolras fists a hand in his hair and meets his eyes.  "When we're sober.  Wanna fuck you when we're sober."

“We are so drunk," Grantaire groans, and kisses em.

The kiss is hot and open-mouthed and messy, and it occurs to Grantaire that ey probably won't even remember this come morning.  He says as much.

Enjolras frowns and fumbles with eir phone.  "Ferre will remind me."

Ey gets Combeferre's voicemail, and Grantaire is mystified.  Both that Combeferre didn't pick up, and that Drunk Enjolras wants to remind Sober Enjolras to fuck Sober Grantaire.

"Remind me I told Grantaire I want to fuck him," Enjolras enunciates.  "I sincerely hope you didn't pick up 'cuz you're fucking Jehan, ok?  Ok, good night."

Then ey turns back to Grantaire, blinking a little before kissing him almost gently on the mouth.  "Dance with me some more?" ey asks.

And it's not as though Grantaire can tell em _no._   Not after all of this.

* * *

Enjolras wakes up the next morning to Courfeyrac shaking eir shoulder.  The hangover headache and nausea hit em immediately, but ey struggles upright anyway. 

"So I hear you went out with Grantaire last night," she says, pressing a bottle of Gatorade into eir hands.  "And, according to the voicemail you left Combeferre, Grantaire is now very, very aware you want to have sex with him."

"Oh fuck," ey rasps.  "I did tell him that.  Shit.  Fuck."

"What exactly happened?"  Courfeyrac asks.  "Like, we lost track of both of you after that barfight."

Enjolras searches eir memory.  "He...he said I looked like I'd walked out of 'Rebel, Rebel,' and we sort of call-responsed the song at each other for a bit, and then we, um, we went and found another bar.  Thinks kind of, uh, proceeded from there.  We danced, and then we got drunk, and I...I don't know what I was thinking but we kissed.  And I said I wanted to fuck him and he told me I was drunk so I said fine, when we're sober then."

"And that's why you called Combeferre."

"Yeah."

"Well, shit, my friend."  Courfeyrac is grinning, though, and Enjolras scrunches up eir face in confusion.  Courfeyrac continues: "You should probably get on that, when you're not hungover."

Enjolras shakes eir head.  "No.  I -- it was a bad idea.  I shouldn't have said it in the first place.  I was out of my head, I shouldn't have --"

Ey sighs, despairing, and flops back onto eir pillow.

"I understand," says a voice that definitely _isn't Courfeyrac's._   

Enjolras sits up again to see Grantaire in the doorway.  There's a coffee mug in his hand, and he sets it down on the card table next to Enjolras's bunk, and walks out, as easy as anything.

But it can't be that simple, can it?

* * *

Grantaire lurks out by the tech vans.  Bossuet looks him over reprovingly, arching one of her elegant eyebrows.  "And that's it?"

"What do you mean, _and that's it?_ Ey doesn't want me when ey's sober.  That's all there is to it.  Ey gives a damn, but not that kind of damn, I guess."  He scuffs the toe of his boot in the dirt.  "It's not anything I can change.  This isn't some shitty romcom, or something."

Musichetta pops up from around the other side of one of the vans.  She adjusts her hijab.  "Grantaire, in case you haven't noticed, Enjolras is the lead singer of a queer punk band on a meteoric rise, and you are that band's best-known groupie."

"It does fit into a certain narrative mold," Joly says from where he's got his arms around Bossuet's waist.  He's technically their P.R. and social media guy, because between him and Bahorel, they know everyone in the scene and the industry, and have for years.  "God knows certain subsets of fans have picked up on it."

Grantaire blinks.  "What?"

"There's fanfiction."

" _What?!_ "

Joly laughs.  "Ever since Cosette did that music video for 'Unflinching,' with all that footage from last tour, it's been popping up on the Internet.  It's not as popular as, say, Enjolras and Combeferre, or Enjolras and Courfeyrac, but it's definitely getting some spotlight."

"You're shitting me."  Grantaire rubs a hand over his eyes.

"Nope.  If you want me to email you some links, I will do that."  Joly is still grinning.  "Some of it's pretty...ambitious, to say the least.”

Grantaire shakes his head.  “You are literally the worst person I am friends with, why am I even friends with you?”

Musichetta shakes her head and comes over to throw an arm over his shoulder.  “Trust me, he’s not joking, but he’s only telling you all of this to tease you.  We’re all really glad you got your night, you know?”

“Got my night?”  Grantaire raises an eyebrow at her.

“You went out for a night with Enjolras, and basically anybody who _isn’t_ Enjolras at this point knows how much you care about em.  And you had fun, it looks like, if that hickey is any real indicator.”  Bossuet is grinning wickedly, and Grantaire’s hand flies to his neck, covering the bruise self-consciously.  

It hadn’t exactly been expected, and Enjolras had managed not to see it earlier, but Grantaire really isn’t looking forward to facing em again with the hickey still dark on his neck.

“Shit, ey was drunk and I was drunk and dear god, what was I supposed to do?” he asks the three of them, almost plaintively.

Musichetta squishes him against her side.  "We're not judging you for it, R.  You and em were both drunk, so it wasn't really anyone's fault more than anyone else's."

Grantaire's not sure what he ever did to deserve friends like these three, but he's not going to question that today.

* * *

Enjolras isn’t  _avoiding_ Grantaire, per se, but ey's not actively seeking him out, either.  Because ey fucked up and now ey has to pay the appropriate price, and besides, there's a show tonight to prepare for, in a little bar in Phoenix, Arizona, a tiny little thing because Bahorel knows someone who knows someone who has a bar and needs the kind of shine that ABC can bring for a night. 

They're doing a mixed set, some ABC originals along with some covers of other bands.  Enjolras didn't pick the covers for this show, but ey glances over them and swallows heavily down at the set list.

Lead in with "Unflinching," sure, that makes sense -- it's the latest single in their catalog, and it's the one ABC hit that everyone and their mother knows.  Then, a little bit of a slowdown with "Belly of the Leviathan," which, again, works.  Pick things up again with a cover of "Warrior in Woolworths," and blend that into...shit, "Roadies and Writers," that one's some of their strongest poetry, but...

Frankly, it reminds Enjolras of Grantaire, and that's the last thing ey needs right now.  To be reminded of Grantaire onstage after what happened up in Utah.

The next song doesn't help, either -- Patti Smith, "Gloria."  If any song they do tonight is a love song, it's this one --

But what should that matter?  It’s just a love song, ey’s done those before, they have a few on their discography.  Hell, ey’s done duet love songs with Courfeyrac, this should be even less awkward, it’s just a performance, so why — ?

Enjolras sighs and cuts that train of thought off.

It’s not worth pursuing, not when there’s a show in six hours and they’re on their way to Phoenix and ey’ll be expected to be composed and capable and everything ey makes emself out to be in interviews.

There are more important things than —

“You look like you’re going to burst a blood vessel.”

Speak of the devil.  Grantaire has slid up next to em, and he’s holding two coffees.  He offers one to em.  “Here, drink.  Promise there’s no booze.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras mumbles, fingers folding around the coffee mug, tips of them brushing over Grantaire’s.  Enjolras’s stomach swoops, but ey hides it.  “Just sort of uncertain about the set list.”

Admitting to this is admitting to vulnerability, which ey does not often allow emself, even to Combeferre or Courfeyrac.  But the words fall off eir tongue so easily, and ey thinks it must have something to do with that night in the bar; ey doesn’t know for certain but ey thinks that no matter what that night was a turning point.

Grantaire tugs on his long black braid almost self-consciously.  “Something wrong with it?”

“No, I’m just uneasy.  It’s nothing, really.  Don’t worry about me.”

The conversation dies away after that, Grantaire watching em carefully as they nurse their coffees in silence.  Grantaire knows how to make a mean cup of coffee, and this is prepared exactly the way Enjolras likes it best.

Ey isn't sure what to do with that.  

* * *

The band arrives at the gig about three hours early.  The bar is fairly empty of people, but that'll change, if Joly and Courfeyrac, bent over their respective cell phones, have anything to say about it.

Grantaire keeps glancing over at Enjolras.  It's been three days since they got drunk together, and they haven't had a conversation or even an argument since.  And today, Enjolras looks uneasy, looks unsettled, and that never bodes well for anyone.

Enjolras is one of the first few off the bus, though, along with Bahorel, and Grantaire follows in behind them.

The decor is glaringly neon and devil-may-care, and the tall person behind the bar is done up drag-queen-at-one-in-the-morning-style on purpose.  Bahorel goes up to them, and there's a quiet, grinning exchange that Grantaire can't hear.  The bartender seems hauntingly familiar, too, but Grantaire can't place them, except that they, like him, are of Native extraction, tan-skinned and dark-eyed.

Then the bartender catches sight of him and their face twists in shock.  Grantaire isn't sure why, but they break off their conversation with Bahorel and come out from behind the bar.

"R?" they say, and shit, their voice is familiar too, but he can't place it.

Who the hell are they?

"Huh?"

They shake their head.  "Sorry, I forgot.  We haven't seen each other in years.  Shit, I had no idea you were even still alive."

"Who are you?" Grantaire asks.  There are a lot of people who knew him before ABC, but those weren't good days, and he shouldn't be surprised that this person would assume he'd died since they'd last seen each other.

"I'm your sister," the bartender says, biting her lip.

And then it clicks.

He hasn't been _home_  since he was seventeen and came out of the closet.

"Holy shit," he breathes.  "Holy fucking shit."

She nods.  "I, um, I go by Josephine, or Josie, these days."

"Did they kick you out too?" he asks her, the old familiar wounds opening.  "Jesus Christ, if they did anything to hurt you..."

Josephine shakes her head.  "They realized, after you were gone, that they couldn't bear to lose me too."  She bites her lip.  "They've gotten better as time's gone on."

"I fucking hope so."  Grantaire takes a step closer.  "And you're tending bar all the way in Phoenix?"

"I'm on the track to own this place after I finish my business degree," she says, smiling almost shyly.  "My boss says I'm a lost cause at drag, but I'm really good at running the business end of things."

Grantaire grins back at her.  "You were always the smart kid," he says.  "C'mere, can I hug you?"

She nods, beaming now, and sweeps him up in a hug.  She's taller than he is, fuck, he's missing so much of her life, he's got so much shit to catch up on.  He clings to her.

"Missed you, kid," he says.

She laughs quietly, and then they separate, and Grantaire remembers that there are other people in the world -- there are other people in the _room_.

But Josie seems to have that covered, because she's grinning as she asks, "So you're running with a punk band now?" and gestures over at Enjolras and Bahorel.  It's a mischievous sort of grin.

"Glorified groupie," he says, also grinning.  "I can always find a good place to get drunk."

She raises an eyebrow.  "I remember you used to play; what happened?"

"Trust me, kid, a lot, and most of it wasn't pretty."  He slings an arm around her shoulders -- she ducks a little for him to manage it -- and they walk back toward the bar.  "But it's pretty good now."

"Good," she says.  "Now introduce me to your friends properly, hmm?"

Grantaire grins.  "I'm sure you've talked to Bahorel, or your boss has, and if you don't recognize Enjolras, you haven't been paying attention to the entertainment industry."

"Psh, I don't care about the musicians.  I care about meeting your _friends."_

_"_ My god, you're insufferable," he says fondly.  But he listens to her, all the same.  "Bahorel, he plays the drums and gets to be the center of most of the tabloid sex scandals.  For a long time the popular tabloid theory was that him and Courfeyrac, our lead guitar, were a thing, and then he got caught making out with Feuilly, one of ABC's lyricists, in a parking lot."  

Bahorel bows, grinning like the cat who got the cream.  "What can I say?  They all want a piece of this."

Grantaire shakes his head.  "Anyway, Bahorel's the best bastard you'll ever meet.  And Enjolras..." He trails off.  "Enjolras is the voice, and ey's the one who made a mission out of ABC."

He's not sure what else to say.  Because he's not sure they're friends, and telling his sister, _this is the one I once made out with while wasted_  doesn't seem all that appropriate.  So he lets the sentence hang in the air, and carefully meets Enjolras's eyes.

Enjolras is smiling at him, almost beatific in it.  Ey picks up where Grantaire left off, saying, "Everyone says I'm the leader, I suppose.  You're Grantaire's sister, then?"

"Yes I am," she says, pulling Grantaire tight against her side.  "But I haven't seen this asshole in years.  I love your dress, by the way."

Enjolras glances down at eir dress, as though ey hadn't given it any consideration when ey put it on this morning.  It's in the same cut as the black one from three nights ago, except it's red.  "Thanks.  You said your name was Josephine?"

"Or Josie, whichever you're more comfortable with," she says.  "Have you been looking after my big brother?" she asks playfully, and Grantaire flushes.

"Nah, if anybody, that's Joly and Bossuet's job," Bahorel says, blithely.  "And Chetta's by extension."

"How many people are in this band?" Josie asks.

Grantaire is only too glad to show her.

* * *

Josephine, or Josie, is just as sharp and witty as her brother, Enjolras finds.  The bar fills up, and ey finds emself keeping from the crowds by hiding behind the bar with her.  She's threatening enough with a dishcloth and charming enough with a drink that no one tries to bother em, and, considering the last few days, ey _really_  doesn't want to be bothered.

"So how long has R been the band?" she asks em, about an hour before they're due onstage.

Enjolras has to think about it for a long moment, and comes up with, "I think we found him in Pittsburgh...god, it must be four years ago now.  I'm pretty sure he showed up at every bar we played in that town, and by the end of that week he just sort of...came with us.  He's been around since before we 'made it,' definitely."

She smiles.  "And what exactly does he do?"

"Whatever needs doing, I guess?  I mean, he helps Joly and Bossuet with equipment a lot of the time, but..."

_But he brings you coffee after you nearly drunk-fucked him.  And he helps get the words out when Jehan can't make them rhyme.  And he'll kill anyone who even looks at Cosette the wrong way.  And he has that preternatural ability to find good bars and clubs.  And you_ still _want to fuck him, even after you've convinced yourself it's a bad idea, and you're having more and more trouble remembering why it was a bad idea in the first place --_

Enjolras doesn't realize ey's blushing until Josie pats him on the shoulder and smiles.  "Take your time.  And really, we need to exchange cell numbers, because you are _fantastic_  with your eyeliner, I'm jealous."

"No, sure, after the show," ey says, feeling a little dumbstruck as it all starts to slot together -- the three unfinished songs, the fact that it bothers em so much that ey still wants to fuck Grantaire, all the attention paid and all the butterflies that lived and died in eir gut; it all seems to point to one direction, and it's a direction ey hasn't been in in years.

Ey doesn't fall into crushes like this easily -- the last one had been Feuilly, when they met during the early days of the band.  And Feuilly had smiled and kissed em and they'd fucked, but it had never been serious and it certainly hadn't been as intense as this.  Enjolras isn't sure what to do about this, so ey asks Josie for a Shirley Temple and drinks it a touch too quickly, nearly chokes on it.  It's sweet, and reminds em of the way Grantaire had laughed.

Suddenly, ey's grateful for the love song.  Maybe it'll help.

Maybe.

* * *

Grantaire watches from nearer the stage than usual -- normally, he hides in some tucked-away corner of whatever venue ABC is playing, enjoying the sound of Enjolras and Courfeyrac's voices and the way they work crowds.

But tonight he wants to watch.  He doesn't watch, not really, mostly listens, but he tucks himself in near the stage and looks up at where Enjolras is conferring with Courfeyrac in the last couple of moments pre-show.  Courfeyrac is grinning like the cat that got the cream, and Enjolras sighs; Grantaire can see the slanted shift of eir shoulders and wonders what that means.

Then, the lights onstage go down, drenching the place in darkness.  The air is electric, and the shifting press of the crowd is close behind him.  He's reminded immediately of the first bar in Pittsburgh, the Corinthé, when he'd been barely twenty-one and not expecting to see twenty-five, and then --

Enjolras, in a red dress like the one ey's wearing tonight, blew away his every expectation.

He wonders how he ever decided to start listening to these concerts instead of watching them as the lights come up onstage again, to Enjolras curled over eir microphone like ey's going to burn gospels out of it.

"Unflinching" burns like that, and Grantaire remembers when Jehan had started writing it, interrupting an argument Enjolras and Grantaire had been having with something of a yelp as he'd dived for his notebook.   Grantaire had laughed.  Enjolras had furrowed eir brows and spun on eir heel, leaving the bus.  Ey'd only come back three hours later, with coffee in hand, and had sat down with Jehan and finished it late that night.

Grantaire watches, and, once, over an arrangement of "Warrior in Woolworths" that has the crowd on their collective feet, Enjolras looks down and makes eye contact with him, a smile curling at the sides of eir mouth.

He's still reeling, a little, when they transition into something Grantaire doesn't quite recognize, with a pounding bassline.

" _Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine,_ " Enjolras intones, eir voice heavy and smooth, curling over the microphone again, and shit, Enjolras is practically kissing the microphone with eir red, red mouth.

This is worse, Grantaire thinks, than the time the band had covered in "Venus in Furs."

Courfeyrac sings on this cover as well, but Grantaire's not sure who decided that, and she cuts Enjolras off after the latter sings "I _'m movin' in this here atmosphere, well, anything's allowed_."

She cuts in with " _And you go to this here party and you just get bored, until..._ "

" _Until I look out the window, see a sweet young thing_ ," Enjolras sings, nodding.

" _Humpin' on the parking meter, leanin' on the parkin' meter_ ," she interjects, shoulder bumping eirs companionably.

" _Oh, he looked so good_ ," Enjolras practically moans, " _Oh, he looked so fine_."

Courfeyrac slings her arm around Enjolras's shoulders.  " _And you got this crazy feeling_ \--"

" _I gotta make him mine, make him mine._ "  Enjolras whines this line, a noise not unlike the ones seared in Grantaire's memory from the night they nearly -- shit, he can't be thinking about this now.

" _He put a spell on you_ ," Courfeyrac sings, grinning, and then addresses the next stanza to the audience:

" _Here ey comes,  
_ _Walkin' down the street,  
_ _Here ey comes,  
_ _Knockin' on his door,  
_ _Here ey comes,  
_ _Crawlin' up his stair  
_ _Here ey comes --  
_ _Waltzin' through the hall  
_ _In a pretty red dress,  
_ _And ey looks so good_ \--" 

Enjolras jumps back into it, with a desperate-sounding, " _Oh, he looks so fine_ " carving into Grantaire's bones.  " _And I got this crazy feeling, I'm gonna, ah, ah, make him mine_."

Ey sounds almost manic now, and when ey arches eir back, bending away from the apparent realization that " _Oh my god, it's midnight,_ " Grantaire has to cross his legs and bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning right there in public.

But then, Enjolras drops to eir knees, dragging the mic stand down with em, moaning out, " _Leaning on my couch, he whispered to me_ \--"

And ey looks directly at Grantaire, bends toward him, singing, " _And I take the big plunge and oh, he was so good, oh, he was so fine_ ," before jumping to eir feet again to shout to the crowd, " _And I gotta tell the world that I just uh-uh made him mine._ "

Grantaire reels for the rest of the song, because while Grantaire isn't a genius, like some people in the band, he's smart enough not to miss this.

Shit.  

_Shit._

Does Enjolras want to fuck him, after all?

* * *

As soon as Enjolras is offstage, ey hits the bar.  Josie raises an eyebrow at em.  "You want to fuck my brother," she says, not letting it be a question.

"Sorry," ey mumbles.  "Do you think I came on too strong?"

Grantaire had disappeared about halfway through the song they'd played next, and Enjolras is terrified ey's fucked it up even more than before.

Josie shrugs.  "I don't know.  Did he want to fuck you before tonight?"

"I...I think so?" 

But Enjolras isn't sure.  For all ey knows, Grantaire could have actually been totally okay with them not fucking.  Enjolras furrows eir brow and gnaws on eir lower lip.  "I need to talk to Joly."

Joly always knows everyone's secrets, and besides, of everyone in the band Grantaire is closer to him and Bossuet than anyone else.

Ey walks outside, somewhat dazed.  Someone's put up a barrier, to keep the fans in order, and Enjolras shakes emself as a teenager with long blond hair squeals to see em. Enjolras signs the kid's shirt and walks on, back toward the bus.

Ey doesn't find Joly, but Grantaire has lodged himself down between the back bumper of the bus and the hood of one of the tech vans.  He's twisting the end of his braid and staring into space, and Enjolras almost doesn't approach him -- ey only does because ey figures ey might as well apologize before everyone else comes pouring out of the bar.

"Hi," ey says, quietly.

"Hey," Grantaire responds, blinking up at em.  He stands up, leans a little against the back of the tour bus.

"You, um, you left in the middle of the show.  You've never done that before."  

_Did I fuck this up?_ floats unspoken in the air, because Enjolras is vaguely sure that that's the case.

Grantaire raises his eyebrows.  "There's no way you pay enough attention to me for that to be something you could say for certain."

Enjolras bites eir lip.  It's true.

"But you're right.  I've never done that before," Grantaire murmurs.

"I'm sorry -- I just thought maybe..." ey trails off, uncomfortable.  "I messed up."

Grantaire looks at em, and Enjolras isn't sure ey's ever seem this much resolve in Grantaire's eyes before, but he says, "I want you to be absolutely honest with me.  Do you want to fuck me?"

"Yes," Enjolras replies.  "Yes, I want to fuck you."

He nods.  "Then get over here and fuck me."

Enjolras gapes a little.  Ey was expecting a little more preamble than _that,_ but ey can work with this.  Ey steps closer, gets between the van and Grantaire.  He's got his back to the bus, and they're standing very close now.

"Are you sober?" Enjolras asks, just to be sure.

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"As a priest."  Grantaire's hands are in his pockets.  Enjolras fights the urge to pull one out and lace their fingers together.

The gesture seems too intimate for whatever this is supposed to be.

Instead, ey leans in closer, leans toward Grantaire with eir entire body, always giving enough time for him to change his mind.

Then, they're kissing.  Enjolras places eir hands on Grantaire's shoulders, lips passing lightly, electric in the contact.  Grantaire shivers, and it's not the chill of the desert night doing it.  "Come on," he says.

It's a challenge, and Enjolras falls right into it, falls into Grantaire with everything ey has.   _Come on_ , Grantaire said, and Enjolras isn't gentle or tender, though ey could have been. _Come on_ , and Enjolras knows not to be.  Ey presses closer again and kisses him harder. Eir hand curls around the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair.

Finally, Grantaire curls a hand around eir hip to drag em closer.  Enjolras lets off a soft moan, because Grantaire's already half-hard, and with the way they're pressed against each other, ey's following him quickly.

"How do you want to do this?"  Ey asks, breathless between kisses.

"What?" Grantaire asks back, hips hitching against Enjolras's.  

Enjolras presses him back against the bus, kisses him all along his jaw.  "How do you want to have sex with me, Grantaire?  What do you want out of this?"

"Shit, I don't know, I don't think this far ahead."  

Enjolras can't help but giggle at that, smothering the laugh into side of Grantaire's neck. Ey kisses the bolt of his jaw.  "Pick something, then, because I don't care what we do."

"What -- what do you like?"  Grantaire is mildly breathless, and his free hand lands in Enjolras's hair.  

"I like giving head," Enjolras whispers into Grantaire's ear.  "I'd like to give you head."

Grantaire moans, and he drags em even closer, taking a handful of Enjolras's ass and squeezing.  "Be careful what you say, I won't, fuck, I won't last long."

"Do you want me to suck you off?"  

"Shit, fuck, yes."  Grantaire groans.  He kisses Enjolras, short and hard.  "But let me -- let me do something for you, too.”

Enjolras laughs.  “Let me do you first.” 

Ey drops to eir knees slowly, right there between the bus and the van, and eir hands land on Grantaire’s belt.  Ey meets his eyes to make sure this is okay.

“Holy shit,” Grantaire breathes, looking down at em.  “Holy fucking shit.”

He sounds almost reverent.  Enjolras doesn’t know how to feel about that, so ey slides eir hands around to his belt buckle and starts unbuckling.  From here, Grantaire’s rapidly growing erection is almost intimidating, almost entrancing, and Grantaire makes a strangled noise when ey shoves his pants down around his hips.

“Can I keep going?” ey asks, seriously.

“Oh, oh fuck, if you stop I might _die._ ” Grantaire is staring down at em with undisguised awe by now.

Enjolras nuzzles into the front of Grantaire’s boxers, trying to figure out where ey’s going from here.  Grantaire’s hand scrabbles gently at eir hair.  

Carefully, slowly, ey trails eir fingertips up his thighs, and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Grantaire’s boxers, inching them down slowly.  Grantaire whines his discontent with the pace, so ey nips at his hipbone in retaliation.  “I’m getting to it, R.”

And ey does.  Grantaire’s bare to em, his cock a little short and — _God, wait, no,_ ** _all_** _the gods_  — it’s thick.  Enjolras wonders if it’s too late to ask Grantaire to fuck em instead, but ey said ey would blow Grantaire, and ey is going _keep to that._

Ey leans in, dragging eir tongue down one side of the shaft, skipping over the head entirely for now.  A thunking noise from above em lets Enjolras know that Grantaire has tipped his head back against the van, and the hand in eir hair tightens.  It’s all a good sign, ey thinks, laving attention on the shaft of Grantaire’s dick, teasing where ey can.  

The teasing doesn’t last long, because Enjolras — Enjolras _loves_  giving head.  And this is no different, while simultaneously very different, because this is _Grantaire_  that ey’s blowing. 

_Holy shit,_  ey realises.   _I’m blowing Grantaire._

Grantaire is moaning above em, and his dick is heavy on eir tongue.  Ey teases and sucks a little more before seeing if ey can take it all in eir mouth. 

Ey can, eir jaw open wide to accommodate his girth, and Enjolras knows that eir voice is going to be shot for at least a day — doesn’t matter, because this feels good.  Swallowing around the head of his cock, Enjolras rubs eir hands up Grantaire’s thighs, settling on his hips.  Then, ey comes up and descends again, trying to find some sort of rhythm that ey can use.  When ey does, Grantaire starts shaking, his whole body tight with desire. 

“Holy shit, holy shit, fuck, _Enjolras_ ,” he babbles, sounding far away and lit up.  “Holy _fucking shit_.”

Enjolras keeps going, until Grantaire’s hand, tight in eir hair, hauls em up to kiss em on the mouth.  Ey blinks.  “What?”

“Wanna, wanna go inside?”  Grantaire mumbles.  “Wanna get you un— undressed.”  

He’s shaking, like he can’t believe that this is real.

Enjolras sets out to prove to him that it is.

* * *

When they stumble onto the van, Grantaire drags Enjolras to his bunk.  He’s struck with the sudden, inexorable to do this _right._

Not that he has any problem at all with public sex, or clothed sex, or anything, but he wants to give Enjolras the world tonight.  He needs to give em everything ey deserves, and ey deserves, well, better than he can give.   But he can still try, and he’s _going_  to try.

“Can I, can I take your clothes off?” he asks, breathless, as Enjolras lets him press em down into the mattress.

“Of course,” Enjolras replies, pulling him down to kiss em again.  Enjolras seems to like kissing a lot, and it’s…it’s incredible now to know what that mouth feels like on places further south, but Grantaire wants to make Enjolras feel the kind of pleasure that he’d been feeling, and that means he needs to take matters back into his own hands now.

So he does.  He slides his hand up Enjolras’s skirt and gropes em, feeling the bulge of eir cock getting bigger under eir tights.

“Oh god,” Enjolras gasps.  

Grantaire keeps going, just gently feeling out the contours of the cock underneath the fabric, testing where it feels best for Enjolras.  His own cock is still hard, because _crap_ , the very fact of this situation is what some of the greatest sexual fantasies are made of.

But Enjolras, Enjolras and eir pleasure matter more right now.

“I know you like to bottom,” he says, voice a little rough with the fact of it, with the implicit admission that he’d seen, paid attention to those things.  “How far do you want to go?”

“What about — what about you?” Ey replies, one hand coming up to tangle almost gently in his hair.  “I don’t — I don’t know how you like it.”

Grantaire shakes his head and huffs out a little laugh.  “I’m good.  Just tell me what you want from me.”

“Do you not want to get off?” Enjolras asks.

“No, I do want to get off, I — I just want to make sure you get off first.  Wanna make you feel good.”  Grantaire doesn’t meet Enjolras’s eyes, dropping a little bite down the line of eir jaw.  “That’s foremost.”

“ _Grantaire,_ ” Enjolras says, quietly, intensely.  There's something almost tender in the way ey says it, and Grantaire almost looks at em, but he doesn't, just bites his way down eir neck and gropes em again, carefully, gently.  Enjolras moans, and it's the sweetest sound, full and sweet and just a little raspy from what they were doing before.

Grantaire kisses eir collarbone, just by the neckline of eir dress.  "Is that okay with you?"

"I -- I kind of," Enjolras mumbles, and now he looks, and ey's blushing, eyes closed, biting eir lip, "Could you, um, could you fuck me?"

It takes everything in him not to moan.  "Yeah," he breathes instead.  "I can definitely fuck you."

"Oh, good," Enjolras says, delicately, breathlessly, and it makes Grantaire laugh helplessly, because he's never heard em sound like that, not even during sex.  "What?  Why are you laughing?"

"You're beautiful," he says.  "And I'm happy."

"Oh," Enjolras repeats, and suddenly eir hand is stroking through his hair.  "I'm -- I'm glad."  

Grantaire smiles and kisses em on the mouth.  "Good."  And then, he leans back, pulling em upright again.  "Can I take your dress off?" he asks, one hand playing with the hem.

"Yes," Enjolras says, "Yes, please."

So he does, hitching the thing slowly up over eir waist, then up over eir shoulders and head -- it's a flimsy little spaghetti-strap thing, and it goes easily, balled up and tossed over the side of the bunk.

Underneath, ey's a vision, pale brown and perfect, already starting to bruise where Grantaire has bitten.  Enjolras looks like the very picture of debauchery, eir hair disheveled and eyes hooded with want.  Grantaire, if he hadn't been smitten before, definitely is now.  He runs his hands reverently up eir arms, and ey blushes.  This tenderness...it's  the antithesis of everything ey is onstage, and Grantaire --

He's falling more in love by the moment.

"Are you going to take your clothes off?" ey asks, giving him a once-over.  Ey blushes and looks down at eir hands.  "I -- I'd like to see your tattoos again."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm getting there," Grantaire replies.  "Could use a little help.  I mean, you have it easy, no zippers or buttons or anything.  Just elastic."

Enjolras laughs, and takes the opportunity to straddle him.  Ey slides his jacket off his shoulders, hands sliding from his sleeveless-by-fabric-shears old band shirt from two tours ago to his arms, caressing him.  Ey kisses his cheek and then eir hands find his waist.

"That was a good tour," ey murmurs.  "I remember, I remember Joly and Bossuet got matching sideshaves, and they looked ridiculous for _weeks._   And it was Cosette's first tour with us.  And your second."

Grantaire smiles.  "Yeah.  That was the tour I decided to get that tattoo."

"Shit, really?"  This is more of the Enjolras that Grantaire is familiar with, eir eyes sparkling with enthusiasm and curiosity.  "It's really amazing."

"You do know you don't have to seduce me, right?" Grantaire teases.

"Oh hush," Enjolras says, blushing.  "I really -- that tattoo -- it means a lot to me that our music means that much to you, that the band means that much to you."

Grantaire feels himself blush.  "Thanks."  He still isn't sure why Enjolras seems so touched by the tattoo -- it's important, yeah, but not as big a deal as Enjolras is making it.

"Can I?" Enjolras, asks, eir hands at the hem of his shirt.  

"Y-yeah."  Suddenly, he's nervous again.  He knows, objectively, that Enjolras isn't going to run screaming at the sight his bare skin, but a lifetime's worth of body-image bullshit nags at the back of his mind.

Enjolras kisses him again.  "If you're not comfortable with that --"

"I'm fine.  Honest."

Enjolras slides eir hands under Grantaire's shirt to start with, slipping around to hold the sides of his waist, softly kneading the flesh there as ey presses kisses to his cheeks.  "I think you're incredibly attractive, but I'm not going to push you to get naked if you don't want to."

"Enjolras, I'm _fine._   Really.  I'm okay."  Grantaire kisses em, quick and hot.  "Besides, it's easier to do this if we're both naked."

"Okay."  Enjolras bites eir lip and then nips at Grantaire's.  "I trust you to tell me if I do something you don't like, okay?  I want this to be good." 

Then, ey drops eir hands back to the hem of his shirt and starts hiking it up.  When it's bunched under his arms, he lifts them, and the shirt comes off over his head and joins Enjolras's dress on the floor.

Enjolras runs eir hands down his chest, tangling in the hair there and brushing lightly, teasingly over his nipples.  He moans, forgetting for a moment that Enjolras is watching him, even though Enjolras is the one touching him.  But Enjolras doesn't stop there; ey presses closer, grinding down against Grantaire's crotch, all friction between eir black tights and his blue jeans.  "You are _absolutely_ gorgeous right now."

"Th-thanks," Grantaire gasps.  "You're no slouch yourself, you know."  He laughs.  "I mean, you gotta see the way people look at you when you're onstage, you in your tights and your dresses and your hair and _god_ , there has _got_ to be a public indecency law you're violating when you move." 

Enjolras smiles, and leans in for another kiss.  "So you're saying a lot of people want to be in your position right now?"

"Oh god, fuck yeah." Grantaire nods emphatically.  "A big part of your draw, as a performer, is how attractive you are onstage, even nonsexually.  People are just -- attracted, not just to the ideals you represent with your music, but to your physicality."

"That's an awfully academic way of putting it," Enjolras says, and there's laughter in eir voice, soft and warm against Grantaire's skin as ey tips their foreheads together.

Grantaire shrugs a little.  "Was gonna be an art student.  Then, stuff.  But some of it still stuck."

He's never talked to Enjolras about the years before the band.  He's never had the chance.  He wonders if this is that chance, but, he just leans in and kisses away the little frown that clung to Enjolras's expression.

"We're both still wearing too many clothes," Enjolras points out.  

"I can fix that," Grantaire murmurs, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of eir tights.  They're sheer enough that the dark outline of Enjolras's cock is visible under the fabric, and Grantaire realizes abruptly:  "You're -- _fuck_ , you're not wearing any underwear?"

"Tights aren't supposed to be worn with underwear.  I danced for like, seven years before I started making music," ey says.  "It's a habit."

Grantaire gapes a little.  Then, he makes a decision.

"How attached to the tights are you?" He asks, fingertips dragging against Enjolras's hipbones under the tights, which sit a little high on eir waist.  "Because I kind of want to absolutely wreck them."

"Easily replaced, wreck away," Enjolras says, an intent heat banking in eir eyes.

"Fuck yes."  He leans, pushing a Enjolras back so ey's lying down again.  "Tell me if you want me to stop doing anything, okay?"

"Okay," Enjolras replies, and spreads eir legs.  Eir cock is slender and about average in length, and eir hips are tilted like it's an offering.  Grantaire leans down and mouths it through the tights, flat of his tongue smearing precum from the head against the front of the tights.

Enjolras whines eir pleasure, hitching eir hips against his mouth.  Grantaire teases, drawing circles with the very tip of his tongue, until Enjolras is shaking against him.

Then, he takes as much of Enjolras into his mouth as he can, given the tights.

Enjolras moans and bucks outright, which makes Grantaire laugh just a little.He kisses the inside of Enjolras’s thigh.

“Can — can you,” Enjolras gasps.

“Can I what?”Grantaire asks, going immediately gentle.“Tell me what you want.”

“I want _everything_ ,” Enjolras murmurs, eyes closed.“You make me want _everything._ ”

Grantaire smiles, but god, Enjolras has never said anything more terrifying than this, in all the time they’ve know each other.

He’s wanted to be wanted, but he doesn’t know what exactly he’s walking into.

Because _everything_ is quite a lot, isn’t it?

He puts the thought out of his mind, for now, and tears open Enjolras’s tights down the front, freeing eir cock to the air.He doesn’t look at em again as he dips his head to take the tip into his mouth, as he slowly works his way down the shaft.Enjolras’s hand tightens in his hair, and ey moans, but Grantaire just keeps moving slow, pressing one hand up the back of Enjolras’s thigh as eir leg hitches higher.

When he gets to the base, he looks up to gauge Enjolras’s reaction.

Ey looks enraptured, head tossed back like a painting of religious ecstasy.If Grantaire’s mouth wasn’t occupied, he’d probably be breathless at the sight of em.

He redoubles his efforts, bobbing his head now as he tries to wring pleasure out of Enjolras’s body.

It makes em moan and whine, and straggled half-sentences fall out of eir mouth.  

This might be the best thing that he has ever done, he thinks.

“K-kiss me,” Enjolras manages after a few minutes of what Grantaire tries to make the most exquisite torture.“Kiss me on the — hh — kiss me on the m-mouth.”

Grantaire can’t deny em that, wouldn’t dream of ever saying no to that kind of request, so he pulls off, slides up Enjolras’s body, and kisses em.They’re almost flush to each other, and Enjolras swings a leg around his hips to keep him close.

It takes his breath away, and when they break for air, he’s shaking.

“Can I — can I fuck your thighs a little?Maybe?” he asks, before he can really think about it.

He can’t really think at all, considering the circumstances and the way Enjolras’s lips are swollen and dark with more than just lipstick now, and eir eye makeup is smeared.

“Y-yes, oh god, please do that, please.”Enjolras loops eir arms around his neck.

“Lemme just get out of my pants?” he asks, and Enjolras nods.  

Grantaire has never gotten his pants off this fast while not ripping them.They hit the same pile of clothes as before with a soft thud, and Enjolras is _smiling_ like the world is a good place, that all of this is unimpeachable.

“Underwear,” ey says, hooking eir thumbs into the waistband of his boxers.“Can I?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire replies, his voice frail with want.

And then they’re both naked.Enjolras sits up and pushes Grantaire down for a few moments, arched over him and looking down at him.  

Ey trails eir fingers down the underside of his cock.“I think you might actually have a _perfect_ dick,” ey says, “Jehan told me you were a fantastic lay, but I don’t think he understood quite how good you are.”

“Oh shush,” Grantaire mumbles.No one’s ever called his dick ‘perfect’ before, and he blushes self-consciously."Thanks."

Enjolras kisses him gently, tossing one leg over both of Grantaire's, bringing their groins together.Ey thrusts, rubs, and they both moan.

Grantaire rolls over on top of Enjolras, trailing fingertips down eir side.It aches in his chest, the way that Enjolras is looking at him, hair wild and eyes gentle.He kisses him, just barely, like it's a theft, and whispers, "Do you wanna be on your back, or your belly?"

Enjolras thinks about it, hand tangled in Grantaire's hair."I want to see you fuck me."

The steadiness of eir voice is absolutely terrifying.Because it implies an intimacy Grantaire does not deserve.

But Enjolras deserves everything Grantaire can give, so he just nods."Okay."

Enjolras presses eir legs together, and eir free hand guides Grantaire's cock between eir thighs."Come on," ey whispers, "Please fuck me."

So Grantaire does, but he's trembling, he's terrified -- after all, this is something too important to fuck up.And if he's good at anything, it's fucking up those things.He's fucked up nearly everything good in his life, after all.

Enjolras must see his fear, because ey kisses him, pulls him close, and tightens eir thighs around his cock until he’s seeing stars.

So Grantaire fucks em, his cock sliding underneath eir groin with the most delicious friction.It’s almost painfully good and he thinks that _this_ is why people in the Ancient Greek classical works talked about thighs like they were the most sexually appealing appendages in the world.  

Of course, Enjolras isn’t some passive, milk-white and unexperienced youth.Ey’s burnished copper and ey’s had sex with pretty much all of their friends, and ey moves like ey was born for this moment.

Grantaire reaches between them, curls his hand loosely around eir cock, and strokes em as he fucks eir thighs.Enjolras moans and tightens eir legs, as if to imply that if ey didn’t eir legs would simply fall open.It’s an idea that makes Grantaire moan in response; he swallows the moan into Enjolras’s mouth, and between the two of them they find a rhythm.

Eir arms are twisted around his neck, pulling him as close to em as ey can manage, and ey tips their foreheads together again, watching him.

It should be terrifying, by all rights.He should be absolutely, completely, _utterly_ afraid. 

But he isn’t.He’s too far gone for that, too far gone to realize just how intimate these moments are, stretched over Enjolras and eir dark blue eyes, lips tempting him even as his hips start to stutter.  

It’s not very long until he spills right there, over Enjolras’s thighs.Enjolras makes a noise unlike any that Grantaire has heard — a noise that’s all pleasure and desire and _want_ , and that’s what keeps him from collapsing to the side; he continues, stroking faster, hand a loose fist around eir cock.Enjolras tenses, shudders, and follows him over the edge, silent, mouth an ecstatic ‘O.’

Grantaire has his free hand in eir hair, and he isn’t sure when that happened, but both of them are quickly going boneless in their contentment.

Enjolras kisses him.“Thank you,” ey whispers, gently, almost reverently.

“You’re welcome,” Grantaire whispers back, as the afterglow, brief as it was, begins to fade.

Night descends.

* * *

Enjolras wakes to an empty bunk and warm light spilling through the curtain.  There is cooling coffee in the cupholder and the bus is moving.  The surface of the coffee ripples with the rolling wheels, and Enjolras is immediately made uneasy by it.

Ey rises, and Grantaire’s clothes are gone.Lazy, just for now, ey slips into just eir dress, and pads down to the main part of their converted double-decker.

Silence follows em; everyone goes quiet when they see em.Ey blinks.

“Something wrong?” ey asks, uneasiness growing.

Courfeyrac takes em aside, her face creasing with worry.It does nothing to help eir growing fear.

“Grantaire…decided to stay with his sister for a while.He said he had a lot of catching up to do with her, and that he owed it to her.He told me to give you this — you never changed numbers with his sister, and she’d told him that you’d wanted to.”She passes em a slip of paper.

Enjolras blinks again, processing the information.“No one woke me to let me say goodbye?”

“He’d said it didn’t matter.”Courfeyrac sees em failing, sees eir composure cracking before even ey does.She pulls em into a hug.“Obviously he was wrong.”

Enjolras hugs her back, resting eir head on her shoulder.“Is he going to come back?” ey asks, voice small.

“I’m sure he will.”

“But what if he doesn’t?What if he decides he wants to be a bartender or something?What if he likes Arizona better than trekking around the country in a converted double-decker tourbus with fifteen people and barely feasible internal plumbing?What if —“

_What if I scared him away?_

Courfeyrac runs her fingers through eir hair.“Hey, hey.Sh.I said I was sure.So I’m sure.He loves ABC.He’d never leave for good.”

Enjolras laughs a little mirthlessly.“I hope you’re right.”

Ey turns and goes back upstairs, to the bunk with its patch of sunshine and its cooling cup of coffee.The coffee is lukewarm now when ey sips at it, curled up in the spot that is still deceptively warm.

Ey watches the desert roll by, silent for hours.

Maybe it’s time to write another song, try for poetry again.

Maybe.

 


End file.
